Only 1200 miles to Marfa
08:51 Oakland, Jack London Square, CA–20:00 Santa Barbara, CA ~bus interlude~ 00:35 Palm Springs, CA–20:35 Alpine, TX
A journey of moments and of sunlight.
Rucksack above my head, I survey the space. Oodles of it. Quite unlike any European train. I wave at my lover’s office as the train passes it. On the announcement of the observation deck’s relative position to me, I take my laptop there to begin my work day. More space. A table to myself. It’s not five minutes before we stop, smell burning rubber.
We are going nowhere, neither our bodies in motion nor our packets of data. A largely black hole that sucks a message out now and then, drops one in. The curious effect of a suspension. In time. A focus and an outpouring. Few distractions. Even the stories being shared around me are like water, cascading over me. And just like that, we move. Ten miles in one hundred and fifty minutes. And other one in a minute, another.
In the café. Where are you from? England. Where in England? Sheffield. Blades or Wednesday? Wednesday… L**ds. Manu. Giggs. Do you want a side of football with your coffee? Later. Hey Sheffield, what are you drinking? Ginger ale please. Do you want ice? No thanks. Oh right, you’re English.
Over the loudspeaker, after joining the reserve list. Bianca. We have a space available in the dining car for Bianca. Come on down, we’re ready for you. Here’s the charming Bianca to join your table. Where are you from? Sheffield. Oh! Mama and Leoni’s! Sheffield, England, you mean? Yes! Hah, what takes you there? I’m a medical courier… I like Sheffield because there isn’t much I want to do there. I just read my book.
Palm Springs. Intermittent red lights in the distance the only indication of the vast swathes of wind turbines: their uncertain luminosity the only indication of the distance away over the flat. The cold comes in from the unknown black.
Through the window, the moon triples, each reflection a little smaller, almost nestling in the space-until-full of its larger self. The same thing happened to everyone on this intercept-mission bus today, but how they feel about it… The emotions fan out, fall out, from that level crossing collision. We have entered the crabby hour.
Arizona. Vastness. Fields of thousands upon thousands of Holstein Freisians, oddly immobile, will-less. Fields of thousands of solar panels busy harvesting the ceaseless sun. Fields of hundreds of defunct rusting aeroplanes. Some, ominously, without windows. All encircled by mountains that don’t seem to get any closer. All surrounded by a ribbon of watercolor wash that bellows ‘beyond’.
The bus driver asks if anyone else wants to drive. Tells us that the light in the bathroom will come on for our convenience when we lock the door. And that a fan will come on at the same time for everyone else’s convenience. He doesn’t want to brag, he says, but he went to astronaut school. His teacher told him he was taking up a lot of space. John gets on the tannoy. Come along to John’s place. I got snacks. John’s place is open and you don’t need a reservation. John here. Since you’re not keeping me busy, here’s my thought for the day. You never know what you’ve got until it’s gone. Like toilet paper. Folks, get your cameras ready, we’re momentarily passing through the least visited attraction in these parts, the invisible pine forest and the not-lake. Is this what Naomi Klein meant when she said whatever platform you have, now is the time to use it - don’t wait for permission? These men are trying so hard to spread laughter. To say something. Maybe to be heard. And my heart aches as I am inundated with memories of all the lonely people I’ve encountered in this country. Those who desperately want to speak. To another human. For a time.
After breakfast, an ineffective palliative for my train seat sleep, I survey the observation car scene. No table to myself today. And though the square solid posture and mirrored aviators shout all that is impenetrable, still I ask to sit. Small talk. I realise my table buddy is a little hard of hearing. And no matter the time, is going to keep drinking beer after beer. The adjacent table, which resembles the starting stock for a high school tuck shop, welcomes back its resident. He starts to tell a train guard of infinity, using words I don’t know but a cadence that’s familiar from Bible passages. The guard leaves. My table buddy picks up the conversation. He hears snatches, responds with occasional laughter, agreement, affirmation. The talker can’t hear well either, because he’s not really here. He’s on an army base. In Europe somewhere. Colluding with the general. We didn’t lose the Vietnam War. Neville Chamberlain shot himself in the foot. The Germans had the atom bomb first. I almost got married in France. He goes and goes until his clockwork slowly halts and he falls asleep still holding a paper in his hand. My table buddy Charles (Chuck) points things out to me. We’re in New Mexico now. An American Indian hid in those hills. They never found him. Look at the crowd (of three people, in this largely ramshackle town). I think he’s having fun, in spite of his distress when he can’t form the words. Started happening four years ago, when I was seventy. I hope I live to see my son graduate high school this summer. We are mostly silent, but it’s warm. Companionability takes many forms.